the desire of the moth for the star
by fyren galan
Summary: Written for kitty-re's "I never loved you" challenge. Again. Draco/Harry SLASH.


the desire of the moth for the star

Malfoy shoved him against the wall, breathing harshly into his ear. Harry heard the sounds of buttons being ripped from fabric and pinging onto the floor. He tasted Malfoy's tongue, which had forced itself into his mouth. He tasted of lasagna, which was what they had for dinner. Nothing else. As much as Harry tried to search for Malfoy's unique flavor, he had found nothing. Perhaps he was water, flowing quickly through Harry's fingers, never to be caught twice, and only drunken once.

But Harry never saw. Every time Malfoy came, he raised his eyes to the sky, and counted the stars.

Because Harry knew if he saw, he could never say his part of the traditional goodbye. It wouldn't be true anymore.

oOo

Malfoy collapsed on top of Harry bonelessly. Harry indulged in his private desires for a moment by leaning his head down on top of Malfoy's. It was soft, his hair, when it wasn't coated by the grime of a thousand gels and creams. It smelt good, but Harry couldn't place the scent. He assumed it was shampoo, but he wasn't a bloody girl, so he couldn't know it was freesias or some such rot. Malfoy sighed, and gripped Harry's robes harder. Harry could still taste lasagna in his mouth.

Malfoy sighed once again, and whispered, "I never loved you."

Harry swallowed, and shakily recited, "It's just fucking."

Malfoy pulled away, and Harry knew his eyes were on Harry, as he fixed up his robes. But Harry never looked down.

Malfoy made a small sound, as if he wanted to say something, but then shut his jaw with an audible snap. He walked away slowly, his footsteps echoing down the hall.

And Harry found Draco in the sky.

oOo

Draco stopped by the nearest wall, once he was out of sight of Harry.

He patted down his robes, smoothing away imaginary wrinkles, as he always did. He shoved his hair into some semblance of order, and blew out air noisily. He straightened up, and looked down his nose at an imaginary crowd.

Then he crumpled at the base of the wall, and tried to tear his hair out with his bare hands.

As he always did.

In the beginning, it hadn't been so hard. Eh, a little fucking on the side with the Golden Boy? Who cares? It certainly didn't affect Draco at all.

But then, when Draco found out he actually preferred taking it slower to three minutes in a crowded bathroom, things started to change.

He noticed things. Details.

Like how Harry (he had stopped calling him 'Potter' in his mind a long time ago) would hover his hands behind Draco's back, barely touching, as if he wanted to hug him. How he would make this unbelievable crooning sound if Draco bit a small spot on the side of Harry's collarbone. How his skin always smelled clean, like soap, even if Draco caught him after Quidditch practice. And when Draco would force his tongue into Harry's mouth, he would always taste like Harry. Nothing else. Draco couldn't explain it.

But Draco never saw Harry's eyes. They never glanced at him when Draco ripped open Harry's robes; they never looked at him when he gently slid into Harry.

They never gazed at him, half-shut, when Harry reached his completion, or when Draco would follow shortly after. They were always pointed at the sky, never coming down.

Draco assumed that it was because Harry couldn't stand to look at him, because he was ashamed of being with Draco, and really didn't want to think of him as something other than a fuck-buddy.

Which gave Draco the strength every time to say, "I never loved you."

And then Harry would reply, unsteadily, because he couldn't stand to talk to Draco, "It's just fucking."

And then Draco would stare at Harry, and try to force words out of his mouth, never succeed, and then leave.

Then he would go sit against some dirty wall, and try to rip his follicles out of his head. Like he did every time.

He never had the courage to say the words that he really wanted to. He was afraid that for the first time, he would see Harry's eyes upon him, scornful and mocking.

And then he might not ever see Harry again.

Draco couldn't risk that, on a stupid chance that Harry… well, didn't _hate_ him.

oOo

Draco went through his cycle for a month, monotonely muttering, "I never loved you." And Harry would reply, with a longer hesitation each time.

Draco thought he was becoming more disgusted with himself for even deigning to let Draco shag him. And it hurt Draco, that Harry never thought of him in _that_ way, or in any way at all, most of the time.

So one night, Draco just snapped.

He was nearing orgasm, and thrusting harder and quicker, and Harry wasn't even acknowledging that Draco's prick was up his arse.

So Draco grabbed Harry's face, and forced him to look into Draco's eyes. God, his eyes were green. And surprised. Draco stared into them and growled, "I did never not love you."

And Harry came. Gazing at Draco, his eyes half-shut, as he reached his completion.

Which, of course, made Draco come.

But what made Draco collapse bonelessly top of him, was Harry whispering, "It's not just fucking."

oOo

Harry's heart thrummed, beating wildly. He had dreamt of this happening, but never imagined it would. But here he was, stroking Draco's back, and holding him up.

This was real.

This was right.

This was not goodbye.

And Harry had finally found Draco in his eyes.

~Fin~

A/N: I just couldn't resist kitty-re's "I never loved you" challenge a second time!

The title is based off this poem:

One word is too often profaned  
For me to profane it;  
One feeling too falsely disdained  
For thee to disdain it;  
One hope is too like despair  
For prudence to smother;  
And pity from thee more dear  
Than that from another.

I can give not what men call love;  
But wilt thou accept not  
The worship the heart lifts above  
And the heavens reject not,  
The desire of the moth for the star,  
Of the night for the morrow,  
The devotion to something afar  
From the sphere of our sorrow?

-Percy Bysshe Shelley


End file.
